


Inciting Revolution & Other Misadventures

by Kwizzic



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, F/M, Hemospectrum, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Social Justice, Trolls and Humans, War and Conscription
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 17:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7854562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kwizzic/pseuds/Kwizzic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dave takes a photography class, is inadvertently involved in a student-run social justice movement, gets mixed up in all that troll quadrant bullshit, is intermittently assaulted by dangerous wildlife, and doesn’t once regret it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inciting Revolution & Other Misadventures

**Author's Note:**

> **me:** hey, I should write a oneshot for the homestuck rarepair roulette! it will be cute and fluffy and require low time commitment! this will be great!  
>  **plot:** *happens*  
>  **me:** fuck
> 
> The prompt was: Dave/Tavros, moirails, a soldier returns from war.

Like most things, it was John’s fault.

Who was it that had shoved the class schedule at him with _Photography 101_ circled in bright blue marker? Who had earnestly assured him that it was _totally perfect for you, man!_ with wide, innocent eyes and only a hint of a mirthful grin? Who had lectured him on the importance of taking some fun classes outside of a surprisingly labor-intensive Paleontology major workload, to give his brain a chance to process things creatively and give a lifestyle-boosting change of pace?

Well, that last one had been Rose. But that didn’t make it any less John’s fault for agreeing with her.

In the end, their combined efforts had convinced him. At the bottom of his class registration form, under the requisite Calculus II, Organic Chemistry, Intro to Stratigraphy, and Invertebrate Zoology, Dave had covertly scribbled _Photography 101_ just before turning it in. 

He’d figured: fuck, why not? With a full NatSci courseload, his old collection of ironic selfies had started gathering dust in a storage unit. His discontinued webcomic _Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff_ was doing the same, metaphorically speaking, in some long-abandoned corner of his laptop’s hard drive. Even his turntables—occupying a prized position in Dave and John’s shared apartment—only got used once a week at most. It was only a matter of time before his nigh-unsurpassable rapping skills got rusty, which was just not okay. 

It takes barely two weeks into the semester for him to regret it.

\--

“All right, you can pack up now,” calls the professor tiredly.

Like racehorses bolting from the gate, all the students in Photography 101 begin to shove books into bags in a tangled rush. It’s late on a Friday afternoon, the sun dipping low in the sky, and everyone is eager to finish early. Rare indeed is the student who doesn’t intend to go out and get mind-numbingly intoxicated on a substance of choice, before making a weekend’s worth of bad decisions with the bullheaded hedonism of youth.

And, hey, Dave is no exception. John and Jade had invited him along to a dinner party at their cousin Jane’s place. Since Jane is a.) the best fucking cook on the face of the planet, and b.) totally hot in a way that’s really awkward to mention around her cousins, there’s no way in hell Dave was gonna refuse.

He dumps his shit into his backpack and is groping for his bus pass when he hears his name.

“Mr. Strider, may I have a word?”

The professor is a mild-mannered tealblood, with a quiet voice and a soft smile. On the other hand, she’s a full-grown female troll, which meant she’s still really fucking intimidating. Her horns are thick and long, curving towards the front of her head like an ox’s, and when she smiles her fangs are sharp and gleaming in a way that makes the troll students go pale on instinct. Once, Dave had overheard a rustblooded classmate guessing her age to be on the far side of three centuries.

Needless to say, there aren’t a whole lot of discipline issues in this class.

Dave nods curtly, shouldering his bag. “What’s up?”

“It’s about your project for the first unit,” she says, apologetic but firm. “I’m afraid I can’t accept your work.”

He raises an eyebrow quizzically. “Why not?”

With a cautious glance at the other students—the last of whom is just shouldering the door open as she leaves—the professor sighs. “Dave, I try to keep an open mind when I grade my students’ work. Photography is a form of art, and there’s room for experimentation and expression. But I don’t feel that your project exhibited those things.”

“You—what?”

She opens a manilla envelope and withdraws a stack of photos. Carefully, keeping her claws away from the glossy surface of the paper, she spreads them across her desk, facing Dave. “Tell me what you see here.”

Dave scrutinizes the photos. “My project.”

“And do you remember the guidelines of the project?”

He shrugs. “Nature photos.”

“Exactly.” She gives him a stern, disappointed look—the kind that always makes him squirm internally because he _does not know how to respond to that._ “The first project was meant to be quite easy, Dave. I wanted you to go outdoors and practice taking pictures with a variety of frames and foci, to get practice with the fundamentals.”

Oh. Fuck.

“Instead you turned in a series of pictures which have quite clearly been taken with a camera phone, with poor quality and very little attention to arrangement, the majority of which feature _this_ animal.”

She pushes one of the photos at him, and Dave doesn’t need to look to know which one it is.

“Jaspers is a cat,” he says with little conviction. “Aren’t cats part of nature?”

“That is a _taxidermied feline wearing a suit in a bathroom sink_.”

He can’t really dispute the claim. Rose had thrown a fit when she’d noticed Jaspers missing, and his hurried explanation about an art project had done little to soothe her annoyance. For someone who claimed to regard the continuing existence of a deceased family pet as an abberation against nature, she got hella pissed when someone messed with it.

“My family has weird funerary traditions,” he offers. 

“Familial traditions aside,” she says crisply, “your work did not accomplish the objective I assigned, nor even show an attempt to follow the instructions I set out. I can’t give you a passing grade on the assignment.”

Fighting a wince, Dave nods.

“What I don’t understand is _why_ ,” she presses. “You’re a good student, Dave. I expected better from you. No one’s perfect on their first try, but I hoped you would at least put some time and thought into your work.”

She regards him expectantly, pushing up her thick-rimmed spectacles with a clawed finger.

You can’t _explain_ irony to people, because half the value is the fact that you have to know to get the joke in the first place. Except there’s very little ironic humor in a failing grade, and as he looks at the blurry photo of Jaspers propped in the sink, he has a sinking feeling that the joke is on him. Like he’s a little kid again, making a childish attempt at playing in the big leagues. Bro would probably be disappointed if he knew—presuming somewhat implausibly that he even has the capacity for disappointment. 

After a moment, she nods. “Well, I hate to have you start off the semester with a failing grade. I think perserverance teaches lessons better than failure. With that in mind, I’d like to offer you a deal.”

He glances up. “Really?”

“I’ll give you a week to redo your project according to the rubric,” she proposes. “Featuring actual nature photos, taken with one of the class cameras. If the final product shows sincere effort and technical skill, I’ll give you full credit. Does that sound acceptable?”

Dave swallows, and nods. “Sure. Yeah. Thanks.”

The professor flashes a small, sharp-fanged smile. “I expect your very best, Mr. Strider.”

Right. 

“Now shoo,” she says, sitting back abruptly. “I expect you have plans for the evening; don’t let me keep you from them.”

Dave picks up one of the class cameras on the way out.

\--

“Jade! Dave!” Jane greets them merrily as she opens the door. “You guys are a little earlier than I thought you’d be; John’s not even here yet—”

It’s easy to tell she’s John and Jade’s cousin, even at a glance. Her wide grin is easily Harley-caliber, and there’s a distinct Egbertian twinkle of mischief in her bright blue eyes. She’s smudged with flour, wearing an apron that says _My Mustache Can Beat Up Your Mustache_ , and brandishing a wooden spoon in one hand, and Dave is really seriously in danger of falling head over heels for this girl. 

Jade, unerringly perceptive, elbows him pointedly. 

It isn’t as though he needed the reminder that hot cousin Jane is Off Limits. Especially as, mere moments later, Roxy sidles up to slide her arm around Jane’s waist and bestow a sloppily enthusiastic kiss on the side of the smaller girl’s flour-smudged cheek. Then she gives Dave a cheerful wink and a cat-got-the-cream grin, with entirely deserved smugness. 

Jane blushes and rolls her eyes. “ _Really?_ Couldn’t you wait?”

“Never for you, Janie,” Roxy says innocently. She breezes forward to give Jade and Dave each an affectionate hug. “C’mon in, kiddies; there’s food.”

They’re bundled into the living room, which is snug but cozy. Jane’s liking for modest, functional furniture combined with Roxy’s creature comforts and Calliope’s artistic flair makes for a pleasant, festive atmosphere. The warm air flooding in from the kitchen smells like vanilla and cinnamon and heaven.

Rose is already there. She’s sitting in an armchair, engaged in deep discussion with Calliope about her current side project: which, as far as Dave knows, has something to do with the war protests. 

On the couch, a troll Dave doesn’t recognize is sitting cross-legged, listening intently. 

“Helloooo, friends!” chirps Jade, bouncing down onto the couch. “What’s up with you guys?”

Calliope lights up, the way she always does when she sees Jade. Cherubs are few and far between, since by nature they mostly end up killing each other off in close proximity, and Calliope is the only one any of them have ever met. When she came on a foreign exchange scholarship last semester, she, Jade, and Jane became fast friends right off the bat. When they get together it’s like they’ve known each other for years instead of just a few months.

“Jade!” The cherub’s eyes go wide with delight. “And Dave! How lovely to see you!”

“Sup,” Dave offers.

The troll on the couch cocks her head. She’s small, with short curly hair and a heart-shaped face. Her horns are short and triangular, poking out through a blue beanie, and her sharp eyes are a shade of vivid olive. She doesn’t look too much older than any of the humans—but you never really know with trolls. 

“You’re Rose’s grubmate, aren’t you?” she asks curiously, as Dave sits down nearby. “You look like her.”

“She’s my sister,” he confirms. “Who’re you?”

“Haven’t you met Nepeta?” Jade asks, overhearing. “She must’ve been over a dozen times— we met on this online roleplay community.”

“I was roleplaying as my fursona, the Pouncillor,” Nepeta confides cheerfully. “Jade was a dog, or maybe a wolf? I don’t remember, really. And then it turned out we were both on the same art board, which was paws-itively purrfect.”

Dave accepts this with a nod and no further questions. If anyone was likely to befriend strange catgirl trolls on the internet, it was almost certainly Jade Harley.

He turns to Rose. His sister is regarding them all with her own special flavor of detached amusement, legs crossed and arms folded delicately across her chest. In a dark dress, with smoky eyeliner and perfect black lipstick, she’s the kind of person who _would_ come off as mysterious and enigmatic if Dave didn’t know exactly how hard she worked to maintain that image.

“What’s up with you?” he asks. “Still championing the downtrodden?”

“Still organizing student anti-war protests, yes,” she says, glancing at him sidelong. 

“Are you sure it isn’t just because you want an in with that hot troll who chairs the committee?” Dave asks idly. “What was her name? Maryam?”

“Kanaya is a lovely person,” Rose says implacably, with a glint in her eye that tells Dave way more than he ever wanted to know about exactly how well his sister and the committee troll are getting along. “She also has a well-founded argument against the drafting of young trolls to the front lines of a primarily purposeless conflict, among other views which I share.”

“Right,” Dave says, letting his skepticism slide into the word. “I’m sure your interest is purely ideological.”

Rose raises an eyebrow. “The wartime draft is a serious problem, Dave. Untold thousands of young trolls are being conscripted to the Condescencion’s invasion force, all to deal with a carapacian threat of nebulous veracity.”

She doesn’t raise her voice at all, but somehow the weight in her words makes everyone nearby turn to listen.

“That’s been going on for decades,” Dave points out, leaning back. “What’s new?”

“A constant injustice is no less abhorrent than a recent one,” she says calmly, folding her hands in her lap. “Just because we’re human doesn’t mean we can ignore the very real wrongs being done to our friends and neighbors.”

She’s in her arguing mode—which sucks because arguing with Rose is a singularly thankless endeavor. 

“I almost got drafted,” Nepeta says distantly. “Equius wouldn’t let me go, though.”

“Who?”

“My meowrail,” she says, unsmiling. “He was drafted to the technology development division, and when my name was on the list he made them change it.”

“And they _let_ him?”

“He’s a blueblood,” Jade murmurs. “A Zahhak, actually, and a _really_ good engineer. I saw some of his design patents...”

Right. Fucking hemocaste shit again. 

Dave really doesn’t know anything about the Carapacian War—not more than your average uninformed human with only a smattering of troll acquaintances.  
Generally he figures it’s one of those troll things that humans can’t possibly understand; like hemocasting and quadrants and allegiance to a terrifying troll empress on an uneasy par with actual democratic government.

“But they wouldn’t really make you fight on the front lines, right?” Dave asks skeptically. “I mean, you can’t be much older than us.”

Nepeta regards him with clear olive eyes, and doesn’t say anything.

“What’s with the mood in here?” Roxy demands, pushing her way over to the coffee table with a plate of brownies. “This ain’t a fucking funeral, darlings.”

John, newly-arrived, trails in her wake. “Hey, guys. What’s up?”

At that, of course, the conversation is diverted. Roxy flirts outrageously with John, and an unbothered Jane brings in plate after plate of snacks and cookies while Jade looks on with sisterly exasperation. Not long after, the infamous Kanaya enters with a shy nod to the hosts and seats herself near Rose; following which the two of them become oblivious to the rest of the world. It’s painfully obvious they’re infatuated with each other.

“What about Jake and Dirk?” John asks through a mouthful of chocolate-chip cookie, glancing up at his cousin. “Are they coming by tonight?”

Jane perches beside Calliope on one of the armchairs, watching idly as the cherub plays chess with Rose. From Rose’s thin frown and Kanaya’s ill-concealed amused smile, Dave guesses that Calliope is winning by a long shot.

“Dirk said he couldn’t come by this weekend,” she says distractedly. “He’s working on a robotics project or something; he was awfully vague.”

“And Jakie’s outta town,” contributes Roxy.

And if Dave is relieved to hear it, he sure as hell isn’t going to admit as much. He likes Dirk; honest to god, he does. The guy is chill and brilliant and he appreciates the finer points of both rap and irony, and he’s never been anything but considerate and helpful where Dave is concerned. As relatives go, Dirk and Roxy are pretty damn great. But there’s something about family resemblance that makes Dave’s wariness hard to shake.

John and Jade make the appropriate sounds of disappointment—unlike Dave, their relationship with their cousins is entirely amiable and unfraught with the myriad little bitternesses native to the Strider-Lalonde family disaster.

Luckily, Rose chooses just then to act the part of the helpful sister for once in her life. With delicacy that would look pretentious on anyone else, but on Rose is just part of the Lalonde experience, she sips her tea and says, “So how’s your photography class going, Dave?”

“Fabulous,” he says. “Peachy. Splendid.”

“That bad?”

He’d scowl at her for being able to read him, but a.) Striders don’t _do_ facial expressions, and b.) letting Rose get under your skin means she wins. It’s a game somewhere between passive-aggression and psychoanalysis and irony, and no one really knows the rules, but that one’s definitely the most important. It’s for the best that Rose is double majoring in Literature and Sociology—if she’d actually gone for a Psych degree like she’d been planning, she’d probably have taken over the world by now.

“Professor Rheses wasn’t on board with my _Cat in a Tux_ collection,” he says. “I’m redoing the project. Nature photos, this time around.”

“Nature photos?” Jade echoes, frowning perplexedly.

“Yeah. Fuck knows where I’m supposed to find nature in the middle of the city, but there you have it.”

“So long as you don’t manhandle our deceased family pets,” Rose says unconcernedly. “Go find a squirrel in Central Park.”

“You should visit the nature preserve,” Nepeta suggests suddenly. “It’s not far from here. There’re a lot of wild animals and some retired lusii.”

It seems like as good an option as any—better than wandering around in the middle of the city and waiting for a convenient flock of pigeons or a passing cockroach—so Dave shrugs and says sure. Nepeta looks up the address on her cell, and he scribbles it down on the back of his hand. Free admission to students is a nice bonus, and the sooner he gets this project done, the better.

\--

And so it is that, bright and early on Saturday morning, Dave drags himself out of bed and downs a cup of instant coffee. (AJ may be his one and only true beverage of choice, but that doesn’t mean he won’t go for enough distilled caffeine to melt his face off.) Then he slings his camera bag over his shoulder, bids the sleeping John a very loud _fuck-you_ , and catches the first bus uptown to the Eastwood Memorial Nature Preserve.

Dave is really not a morning person.

He checks in at the front desk, where a redheaded human clerk gives him the baleful stare of a still-hungover college student who, like Dave, would greatly prefer to be sleeping. She barely even glances at the student ID he slides across the counter; she only stamps and shoves his free entry badge at him in irate silence.

“Thanks,” he says dully, and pushes through the gate.

Now that he’s actually inside the preserve, he’s confronted with the realization that he didn’t make any plans fow what to do next. Probably Professor Scarytroll would be satisfied with any sort of animal so long as it’s actually alive and not the stuffed corpse of a household cat. 

Dave glances up at a sign:

Small Mammals ↗  
Fish →  
Reptiles →  
Large Mammals ←  
Birds ↑  
Invertebrates ↖  
Musclebeasts ↙  
_(Inquire at desk regarding placement of lusii)_

Dave heads down the path marked ‘Birds’ because a.) things that fly are pretty damn awesome and b.) as hilarious as it would be to make a portfolio full of dramatic Musclebeast portraits, he doesn’t think the professor would find it that amusing. (He’ll just drop by later and take some pictures, then wallpaper Egbert’s bedroom with them when he gets the chance. It’ll be inviting master prankster retribution, of course, but it’ll totally be worth it.)

The bird cages are spaced away from the rest of the preserve, and Dave soon discovers why.

“Christ on a flapjack,” he grumbles, dropping his camera (it swings from his neck on a strap) to cover his ears as an enormous white parrot lusus squawks at him from inside the cage. “The fuck did I ever do to you?”

The lusus snaps at his fingers through the break in the wire mesh.

“Jesus, lay off,” he grouses, taking a step back.

“Oh _no_.”

Dave looks up to see a troll approaching him in a panicked rush. It takes Dave a few seconds to realize that the guy’s wearing the employee uniform of green vest and khakis, primarily because he’s too busy making note of the wheelchair he’s sitting in. You don’t see a lot of disabled trolls around; they’re a lot tougher than humans, and what’s strong enough to hurt a troll usually kills one.

“Didn’t do shit, I swear,” he deadpans instead, putting up his hands.

Wheelchair-guy ignores him and goes right up to the cage, where the lusus is snapping at the bars in a futile effort to bite Dave’s head off or something. He puts up his hands to the bars slowly, gingerly, and murmurs something quiet to the bird. Gradually, the crazed flapping and squawking subsides, and with one last flutter of wings, the lusus settles.

“How the fuck?” Dave wants to know. “Dude, are you like, the parrot-whisperer?”

The troll turns back to face Dave. He’s got a soft-looking mohawk and some pretty impressive horns—curving out and up on either side of his head. Like, if the wheelchair isn’t a mobility issue, those horns definitely are. His eyes are brown like chocolate and puppies and shitty similes, his nametag says _Tavros_ , and he looks—oops—kind of pissed off.

“Uh,” says Tavros the troll, looking up at him sidelong. “Are you sure you didn’t, maybe, provoke the birds a little? Because they seem to, uh, really not like you, and usually not-liking is a thing that happens as an effect and not a cause?”

And being accused of god-knows-what by some random nature preserve volunteer is just way more than Dave is prepared to let slide, especially on one measly cup of coffee.

He folds his arms and raises an eyebrow. “You caught me, bro. Psycho bird only hates me because I murdered his family. Now he’s all grown up and wants revenge, Inigo Montoya-style.”

The troll blinks at him.

“I’m, um, pretty sure you’re not telling the truth,” he says eventually. “Because that would be a pretty strange thing to confess to, and also because this lusus is female.”

“Wow,” Dave says. “Brilliant deduction.”

It’s easy to forget that trolls basically suck at the concept of sarcasm, especially as Dave only knows a few trolls personally. Kanaya-the-committee-troll is completely stymied by it, though Rose is doing her best to provide enthusiastic exposure therapy. Even Nepeta, who’s apparently pretty acclimated to human stuff, gets puzzled from time to time.

Tavros the Parrot-Whisperer narrows his eyes uncertainly, like he’s not sure whether he’s being made fun of. “I think, maybe, you should go.”

“What, you’re kicking me out because your bird decided to go psycho maneater on my ass?” Dave argues, digging in his heels—at least metaphorically. Physically, he just sort of shoves his hands in his pockets and tries to radiate chill. He didn’t really want to be here in the first place, but like hell is he getting shooed out for something that wasn’t even his fault.

The troll gives him a dubious look. 

“All I wanted to do was take some fucking photos. If I’d known Inigo over there would start this shitstorm, I’d’ve gone to look at the slugs or something,” he continues. “So stop looking at me like I kicked over your sandcastle.”

Tavros regards him uncertainly, and it’s pretty clear that he’s only understood about half the words coming out of Dave’s mouth. But apparently the tone gets through all right, because he casts a glance at the parrot lusus and then back to Dave, and the closedness in his face lightens a little.

“Photos?”

Dave points to his camera—which should be self-explanatory, seriously. “School project.”

Understanding, and then discomfort dawns in Tavros’s face. “Some of the lusii are, um, sensitive to light.”

This is news to Dave, who hasn’t interacted with a lusus in his entire life, outside of field trips to the zoo. He shrugs. “I wasn’t using the flash.”

The troll wheels forward cautiously, glancing at the camera. “Glass. It, um, reflects brightly sometimes? Maybe the lens was shiny, or some other thing about what you were doing caught the lusus’s attention, which led it to behave aggressively, at a time when it would normally not?”

“Or maybe it just has it in for me,” Dave concludes. He looks back at the parrot, and is _honest to god certain_ that the bird is eying him evilly. 

“That... seems unlikely?” Tavros says delicately.

“That’s what you think,” Dave says stolidly. To the parrot, he adds: “Yeah, I’m watching you too, Inigo.”

The troll hesitates, thumbing the edge of his sleeve. Then, haltingly, he offers: “If you still need to take pictures, I can show you to the featherbeast hive? And maybe, um, find some species that are more docile, and accustomed to being handled?”

It takes Dave a moment to recognize the look in Tavros's eyes, and another moment to pull through the mortification on the other side. The wheelchair-bound volunteer troll feels bad for him. A lone college student incapable of taking a single photograph without being assaulted by birds. He’s a charity case. This is a new low. This is the center of the fucking planet low.

Dave reasons he can’t get much lower. He’s already lost most of his dignity to the camera and the rest to the parrot.

“Lead the way,” he says.

\--

Tavros takes him to see the ducks.

The _ducks_. Granted, he’d expecting something small and nonthreatening. But these ducks are so fucking placid they might as well be comatose. He walks up to one, like three inches away, and it doesn’t so much as look up at him. If it weren’t for Tavros’s watchful gaze, he’d’ve tried poking it with a stick to make sure it was still alive. It’s boring as fuck.

Oh, but not for Tavros. He gets swarmed the moment he wheels inside the enclosure. There’s a symphony of happy quacks and then bam, the troll is surrounded by feathery friends. He lifts up a duckling and holds it in his lap with nary a suspicious glance from its mother. The duckling nestles down and promptly falls asleep.

“I feed them?” the troll offers apologetically by way of explanation, when the last duck hops towards him and Dave is left bereft of photo subjects.

“What, filet mignon? Ambrosia?" Dave asks. “Or, like, seaweed? Ducks eat seaweed, right?”

“Uh, not usually, no.”

Gingerly, he tries to extricate himself from the mob of quacking admirers. It’s a losing battle, with Tavros doing his best not to run over any wings or webbed feet, and the ducks waddling anxiously around him. Dave watches, feeling vaguely bemused.

“This is just kind of embarrassing,” he comments. “You’re being waylaid by a herd of overly affectionate waterfowl.”

Tavros sighs. “Hang on.”

He pauses for a moment, like he’s trying to focus. Then there’s a flicker of _something_ , a silent crackle in the air that’s gone before Dave can really get a good look at it. One by one, the ducks disperse. They waddle back to the pond quietly, resuming their old don’t-give-a-fuck looks. 

“The hell?” Dave says succinctly.

“Oh.” Tavros says- first surprised, then mildly embarassed. “I, um, can commune with animals sometimes, on account of my caste.”

“You’re a psychic?” He tries to remember what little he knows about troll psychics. Rose once made him watch a movie once about a troll chick who communed with the dead and went crazy. There was a lot of subtext and a whole sideplot about quadrants he basically ignored, but he had the vague idea that psychics were supposed to be a hell of a lot more impressive than, well, _Tavros_. “So can you telekinete, or whatever?”

The troll gives him a perplexed look. 

“Just animals, then,” Dave guesses. “All kinds, or just ducks? Actually, can you do bugs? Because my apartment has a _massive_ cockroach problem.”

Tavros furrows his brow. “I don’t think I can help you with that.”

“Yeah, I was mostly kidding anyway,” he says with a shrug. “The cockroaches aren’t so bad anymore, since John got suckered into looking after my cousin’s cat for the weekend. Free pest control, totally worth it.”

“...Okay,” says Tavros, with a look of utter incomprehension.

After that, Dave mostly chases around the uncooperative ducks, trying to get some halfway decent photos. Though he has a feeling Professor Scarytroll is going to be less than satisfied with thirty-five pictures of identical sleeping ducks—especially after the Jaspers incident. 

He’s about to ask Tavros if they can go check out some more interesting animals when it occurs to him that the sun is nearly directly overhead. When he checks his watch, he winces.

“Shit. I have to catch the eleven-thirty bus.”

Tavros clears his throat. “Um, if you want to come back later in the week, like to get more pictures for your project...” he trails off, and then looks up again. “I’m here in the afternoons on weekdays.”

Dave nods, and offers a fist bump. Tentatively, Tavros returns it. 

It isn’t until he’s already on the bus that Dave remembers he forgot to get the musclebeast photos for John. Hindsight’s a bitch.


End file.
